TlliflVl»»<€^ft\CvW'^V$ *>iOX 






\ 



IPS 3529 

PS N5 
191S 
fCopy 2 



leHONT ^«iN$,i^|«i*^ 1^ 



THE FLYING STAG PLAYS 

For The Little Theatre 

No. 2 



NIGHT 



COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY 

EGMONT ARENS. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 



The professional and amateur stage rights on 
this play are strictly reserved by the author. Ap- 
plications for permission to produce the play 
should be made to the Provincetown Players, 139 
MacDougal Street, New York. 

While it is hoped that the publication of the 
plays in this series w^ill encourage their produc- 
tion in all parts of the country, it is held that the 
interests of the Nev^ Theater movement can best 
be served by vigorous protection of the play- 
wrights, without whom the movement cannot go 
forward. 

Therefore any infringement of the author's 

rights will be punished by the penalties imposed 

under the United States Revised Statutes, Title 

60, Chapter 3. 

The Publisher. 



APR 12 ISiS 






N I G H T V V ^ Poetic 
Drama in One Act by James 
Oppenheim as played by the 
Provincetown Players. 



Published by EGMONT ARENS at the 

Washington Square Bookshop V New York 

1918 



/^/^\^' 



Night was first produced by the Provincetown 
Players on November 2nd, 1917, with the follow- 
ing cast : 

The Scientist - - - - Justus Sheffield 
The Poet _ _ - - George Cram Cook 
The Priest - - - - Hutchinson Collins 
The Man _ _ . _ _ Rollo Peters 
The Woman _ _ . . _ Ida Rauh 



The scene and method of playing, suggested by 
Rollo Peters. The actors appear in silhouette 
before a lighted blue screen upon a simple 
mound that suggests a hill-top. 



NIGHT 

A Priest, A Poet, A Scientist. 
Hilltop, in October; the stars shining. 

[The Priest kneels; the Scientist looks at the 
heavens through a telescope; the Poet 
writes in a little note-book.] 

THE PRIEST 
When I consider Thy heavens, the work of 

Thy fingers, the moon and the stars, 

which Thou hast ordained; 
What is man, that Thou art mindful of him. 
And the son of man, that Thou visitest him? 

THE SCIENTIST 

Algol which is dim, becomes again a star of 
the second magnitude. 

THE POET 

My beloved is far from this hilltop, where the 

firs breathe heavily, and the needles fall; 
But from the middle of the sea 
She, too, gazes on the lustrous stars of calm 

October, and in her heart 
She stands with me beneath these heavens — 

daintily blows 
Breath of the sighing pines, and from the 

loaded and bowed-down orchards and 

from the fields 
With smokes of the valley, peace steps up on 

this hill. 

THE PRIEST 

Thou art the Shepherd that strides down the 
Milky Way; 

Thou art the Lord, our God: glorified be Thy 
name and Thy works. 

I see Thee with Thy staff driving the star- 
sheep to the fold of dawn. 



6 . NIGHT 

THE SCIENTIST 

The Spiral Nebula in Ursa Major, that forever 
turns 

Slowly like a flaming pin-wheel. . .thus are 
worlds born; 

Thus was the sun and all the planets a hand- 
ful of million years ago. 

THE POET 

She is far from me. . .but in the cradle of the 

sea 
Sleepless she rocks, calling her beloved: he 

heeds her call: 
On this hilltop he picks the North Star for his 

beacon. . . 
For by that star the sailors steer, and beneath 

that star 
She and I are one in the gaze of the heavens. 

THE PRIEST 

[Slowly rising and turning to the others.] 
Let us glorify the Creator of this magnificence 

of infinite Night, 
His footstool is the Earth, and we are but the 

sheep of this Shepherd. 

THE SCIENTIST 

Thus shall we only glorify ourselves, 

That of this energy that rolls and drives in 

suns and planets 
Are but the split-off forces with cunning 

brains, 
And questioning consciousness. . .Pray if you 

must — ^ 

Only your own ears hear you, and only the 

heart in your breast 
Responds to the grandiose emotion ... See 

yonder star? 
That is the great Aldebaron, great in the 

night, 



JAMES OPPENHEIM 7 

Needing a whole sky, as a vat and a reservoir, 

which he fills with his flame . . . 
But no astronomer with his eye to his lenses 
Has seen ears on the monster. 

THE PRIEST 
Thou that hast never seen an atom, nor the 

ether thou pratest of, 
Thou that hast never seen the consciousness 

of man, 
What knowest thou of the invisible arms 

about this sky, 
And the Father that leans above us? 

THE POET 

We need know nothing of any Father 

When the grasses themselves, withering in 
October, stand up and sing their own 
dirges in the great west wind. 

And every pine is like a winter lodging house 
where the needles may r member the 
greenness of the world. 

And the great shadow is jagged at its top 
with stars. 

And the heart of man is as a wanderer look- 
ing for the light in a window. 

And the kiss and warm joy of his beloved. 

THE PRIEST 

Man of Song and Man of Science, 

Truly you are as people on the outside of a 

house, 
And one of you only sees that it is made of 

stone, and its windows of glass, and that 

fire burns in the hearth. 
And the other of you sees that the house is 

beautiful and very human. 
But I have gone inside the house, 
And I live with the host in that house 
And have broken bread with him, and drunk 

his wine, 



8 ' NIGHT 

And seen the transfiguration that love and 

awe make in the brain. . . 
For that house is the world, and the Lord is 

my host and my father: 
It is my father's house. 

THE SCIENTIST 

He that has gone mad and insane may call 
himself a king, 

And behold himself in a king's palace, with 
feasting, and dancing women, and with 
captains. 

And none can convince him that he is mad, 

Slave of hallucination. . . 

We that weigh the atom and weigh a world in 
the night, and we 

Who probe down into the brain, and see how 
desire discolors reality. 

And we that see how chemical energy changes 
and transforms the molecule. 

So that one thing and another changes and so 
man arises — 

With neither microscope, nor telescope, nor 
spectroscope, nor finest violet ray 

Have we found any Father lurking in the in- 
tricate unreasonable drive of things 

And the strange chances of nature. 
THE POET 

O Priest, is it not enough that the world and 
a Woman are very beautiful. 

And that the works and tragic lives of men 
are terribly glorious? 

There is a dance of miracles, of miracles hold- 
ing hands in a chain around the Earth 
and out through space to the moon, and 
to the stars, and beyond the stars. 

And to behold this dance is enough; 

So much laughter, and secret looking, and 
glimpses of wonder, and dreams of ter- 
ror. . . 

It is enough! it is enough! 



JAMES OPPENHEIM 9 

THE PRIEST 

Enough? I see what is enough! 

Machinery is enough for a Scientist, 

And Beauty is enough for a Poet; 

But in the hearts of men and women, and in 
the thirsty hearts of little children 

There is a hunger, and there is an unappeas- 
able longing. 

For a Father and for the love of a Father. . . 

For the root of a soul is mystery. 

And the Night is mystery, 

And in that mystery men would open inward 
into Eternity, 

And know love, the Lord. 

Blessed be his works, and his angels, and his 
sons crowned with his glory! 
[A pause. The Woman with a burden in her 
arms comes in slowly.] 

THE WOMAN 
Who has the secret of life among you? 

THE PRIEST 
I, woman, have that secret: 
I have learned it from the book of the revela- 
tions of God, 
And I have learned it from life, bitterly, 
And from my heart, holily. 

THE SCIENTIST 
Be not deceived, woman: 

There is only one book of reality — the book 
of Nature. 

THE WOMAN 
Who has read in that book? 

THE SCIENTIST 
I have read a little: 
No man has read much. 



10 NIGHT 

THE POET 
They lead you nowhere, woman; 
You are the secret of life, and your glory is in 

seeking the secret, 
But finding it never. 

THE WOMAN 

I have climbed this hill and found three 

watchers of the night — 
Three star-gazers perched above the placid 

October harvests 
Where they lie golden and crimson along the 

valley, and high on the slopes 
The scarlet maples flame — 
You are a priest: and you speak of God. 
I am nothing but need: for I carry a burden 

that is heavier than the Earth, and is 

heavier 
Than the flesh of woman can bear: I break 
Down under it: and a hard hate 
Against my birth is steel in my heart — I curse 
God, if there be a God — 
Love, if there ever was love — 
Life, that is empty ravings, 
And the hour when I was born. 

THE PRIEST 

Peace! Peace! Thou standest in the presence 

of the Night 
Shadowy with grace and benediction — the 

mercy 
Of the Lord falls like the dew on the soft 

brow of thy affliction! 



THE POET ^ 
[Softly.] 
She is very beautiful and dark with her stern 

cursing. 
Standing there like an enemy of great Je- 
hovah, 



JAMES OPPENHEIM 11 

A demon-woman satanic — she is very beau- 
tiful, 

With her arms full of her burden, and the 
stars 

Seeming to retreat before her. 

THE SCIENTIST 
What burden is that you carry? 

THE WOMAN 
That which is worth nothing. 
And worth more than these stars you gaze at. 

THE PRIEST 

Put thy burden upon the Lord, and thy truSt 
in His loving kindness. 

THE WOMAN 

I will not part with my burden, though it is 

worth nothing. . . 
For what are a few pounds of dead flesh 

worth when the life has left it? 

THE PRIEST 
Then you carry the dead at your breast? 

THE WOMAN 
I carry the dead . . . 

THE PRIEST 
Flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone. . . 

THE WOMAN 
My breasts are still heavy with unsucked 
milk. . . 

THE PRIEST 
Your child has died. . . 

THE WOMAN 
My baby is dead. . . 



12 . NIGHT 

THE PRIEST 
The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away; 
Blessed be the name of the Lord. 

THE WOMAN 
Nine long months 
I ripened with the human seed, and like a 

goodly tree that is green 
Stooped with sheltering boughs above the 

swelling fruit. . . 
Song rang sweetly in my blood. . . 
I tasted the silent life as a spring hillside 

where the furrows are run 
So holds its bated breath against the pressing 

of the grass-blades 
That birds coming that way catch the held- 

down glory under the furrows 
And scatter ecstatic golden notes in the morn- 
ing light. . . 
Until the trumpets blasted, as if the opening 

heavens of a sunrise 
Were battalions of bright trumpeters blowing 

news of dawn . . . 
Sank I then into darkness, 
Sank I then into terror, 
Till I was healed of pain by the new-born, my 

child. . . 
And now, behold in my arms 
The life of my life: 
All that I was went out in him: my life was 

now outside me. 

THE PRIEST 
Unto thee a son was born! ^-—^ 

THE WOMAN 

I ran to tend him with glad feet, and with 

laughter. . . 
For my life was now outside of me. 
And I was seeking my life. 



JAMES OPPENHBIM 13 

THE PRIEST 
You praised the Lord? 

THE WOMAN 
I loved my child. . . 

THE PRIEST 
And God forgotten? 

THE WOMAN 
That child was holy. . . 

THE PRIEST 
He was but flesh . . . 

THE WOMAN 
Just so was Christ . . . 

THE PRIEST 
A Son of God. . . 

THE WOMAN 
My child was such. . . 

THE PRIEST 

So in the corrupt new generations of men 
They forget God, and love but the flesh, 
And the corruptible flesh decays after its kind 
And in their bereavement they have nothing 

. . .then in their sorrow 
They curse the true and the good. 

THE WOMAN 
The flesh, you say? Here is the flesh: 
But was it the flesh when his blue eyes 

opened and gazed with great hunger, 
Was it the flesh that wailed, the flesh that 

warmed against my naked breasts, the 

flesh 
That went a secret way, and I after, I after, 

seeking through embraces 
To catch my son back, hold him; . . .but, oh, 

he was gone. 
He was gone, leaving this. Priest, is this all 

you have for the bereaved? 



14 ' NIGHT 

THE PRIEST 
That which, is gone is now with God. 

THE WOMAN 
/ was his God, for to me the beautiful bright 

life raised its hands, 
Suppliant, full of faith. . . 
He wailed for enfolding love: I gave it 
For daily bread: I gave it 
For healing and shelter: I gave it. 
Out of me he came, but away from me he has 

gone, 
And if he has found out some other mother, 

I curse her in my jealousy! 

THE PRIEST 
So you blaspheme the holiness of the Omnipo- 
tent! 

THE WOMAN 

So I curse the thief who stole my treasure 
away. 

THE PRIEST 

Alas! Who may speak to a sacrilegious gen- 
eration? 

THE WOMAN 

Speak if you can, and tell me in a few words 
What is the secret of life? 

THE PRIEST 

Life is a mysterious preparation for immor- 
tality. . . 

We are sons and daughters of God, who shall 
later be angels, and in heaven^^^ 

Know bliss beyond all dream. ^ 

THE WOMAN 

[Uncovering her child's face.] 
My son. . . 
You and I lately pulsed with one pulse, and 

sang together one song: 



JAMES OPPENHBIM 15 

For you the flaming pain, for you the terror 

of birth. . . 
And this priest's God let you suffer, in a 

glorious preparation, 
And let you die . . . 

[Kisses him.] 
Cold! Cold! My heart tightens hard, my 
blood is chilled. . . 
[In a loud cry.] 
Hellish heaven! Devilish God! 

[Silence. The Poet advances and covers the 
face.] 

THE POET 

You are very wonderful and very noble in 

your Satanic anger. 
Your curses are cleansing, for it is a mighty 

thing for man to confront creation 
Greater even than this vast Night, to stand in 

his transiency 
And his pitiful helplessness, and in the grasp 

of his doom, and against death, 
Darkness, and mysterious powers, alone of 

all life 
Godlike, downing the universe with defiance! 

O godlike 
Are you; and you are God! 

THE WOMAN 

[Casing at him.] 
Who are you, with these words? 

THE POET 

Seer and singer, one who glories in life, and 

through vision 
Creates his own worlds. 

THE WOMAN 
Has your mother ever wept for you? 

THE POET 
All mothers weep ... 



16 ' NIGHT 

THE WOMAN 
Have you ever had a child? 

THE POET 

No child of my own: hut I know the love of 
children. 

THE WOMAN 
Can I trust you with a great trust? 

THE POET 
I think of you as a holy thing. 

THE WOMAN 

Then — take this a moment, 
And feel how light a heavy burden may be. 
[She carefully places the child in his arms.] 

THE POET 
How strangely light! 

THE WOMAN 
You tremble. Why? 

THE POET 
There is something so real in the stiff posture 

of these tiny legs, 
These crooked arms, this little body, 
This hanging head. . . 

THE WOMAN 
Can you see him? 

THE POET 

[Looking close.] ^""""^ 

O tiniest budding mouth, 
O dark deep fringes of eyelids, 
O pallid cheeks. . . 

THE WOMAN 
And the little tuft of hair — you see it? 



JAMES OPPENHEIM 17 

THE POET 
Take him! My heart is in despair! 

THE WOMAN 
No one will have my burden; for my burden 

is heavier 
Than any save a mother can bear . . . O Earth, 

hard Earth, 
I shall not go mad: I hold back: I shut the 

doors on the Furies: 
I stand straight and stiff! I hold against my 

heart with words! 
[Silence.] 
So, poet, you are hushed! Life is too much 

for you! 
Go — live in your dreams and let the reality of 

experience 
Flow over you, untasted. . .You are wise: it is 

better! 
[Silence.] 
What? All silent? My star-gazers brought 

to a pause? 
You, too? 

THE SCIENTIST 

[Grimly.] 
Who would listen to me must be hard and 
strong. 

THE WOMAN 

Am I soft and weak? 

THE SCIENTIST 

You have the strength of revolt, but not the 
greater strength of acceptance. 

THE WOMAN 
What shall I accept? 

THE SCIENTIST 
The inexorable facts of life. 



18 NIGHT 

THE WOMAN 
And what are those facts? 

THE SCIENTIST 
That man is no more than the grasses, and 

that man is no more, 
Though his dreams are grandiose, than the 

pine on this hill, or the bright star 
Burning blue out yonder — strangely the 

chemicals mix, and the forces interplay, 
And out of it consciousness rises, an energy 

harnessed by energies, 
And a little while it burns, then flickers, then 

vanishes out, 
And is no more than the October wind and 

the smell of dried hay. 

THE WOMAN 
These are the facts? 

THE SCIENTIST 
These are the facts. 

THE WOMAN 
And my child was nothing but energy, gath- 
ered and scattered? 

THE SCIENTIST 

These are the facts. . . 

THE WOMAN 

He was only a cunning engine and a curious 
machine? 

THE SCIENTIST ^_^ 

Thus are we all. . . 

THE WOMAN 

Not all . . . thus are you . . . 
But this child was mine, he was my baby and 
he was my son. 



JAMES OPPENHEIM 19 

And I was his life-giver, and his lover, and his 
mother. . . 

And I knew the glory of this child, for I lived 
with it. 

And I know the marvel and mystery of moth- 
erhood, for I lived it. . . 

I lived it, who now live the death of a treas- 
ured being, 

And who know now that the light of the world 
is out, and only death 

May heal me of anguish, and only death's long 
sleep 

S'xall bury my bereavement in peace. . .O 
mouthers of words, 

Dreamers who do not live, I go back to the 
valley, 

And there I shall put this babe in the Earth 
where the seeds of Autumn are sinking, 

And there I shall slay myself, knowing that 
no one knov/s, 

And no one helps, and life is a madness and a 
horror. 

And to be dead is better than to suffer. 

[They say nothing. The Priest silently prays. 
The Woman turns, and starts slowly out. 
But as she goes a Man enters, search- 
ingly.] 

THE MAN 
Beloved! O where have you fled from me? 

THE WOMAN 
Go back — I hate you for bringing this being 

into life, 
Whose loss has ruined life, life itself: and I 

had better never loved you. 
For love brings children to the mother. 

THE MAN 
It is my child, too. . .1 too have lost him. 



20 , NIGHT 

THE WOMAN 

You have lost a plaything and the promise of 

a man, 
And you have lost a trouble and a burden: 
But I have lost my love, and I have lost the 

life of my life. 

THE MAN 

You are cruel in your sorrow beyond all 
women. . . 

THE WOMAN 

Then leave me, and seek comfort elsewhere. 
There are many women. 

THE MAN 

You are desperate, and there is a hardness in 

you that makes me afraid. 
Where are you going? 

THE WOMAN 
I follow this child. 

THE MAN 
Then I lose my child . . . even as you lost yours. 

THE WOMAN 
Your child? Ha! I am gone! 

[Tries to pass him; he seizes her.] 

THE MAN 

You shall not go, for you are mine. O be- 
loved, hear me! 

THE WOMAN 

Take away your hands, for every moment that 

you make me stay 
Deepens my hate of you. 

THE MAN 
You would break my life in bits? 



JAMES OPPENHEIM 21 

THE WOMAN 
Your life is not so easily broken. . . 
You are a man. . .Come! I shall do some ter- 
rible thing — 

THE MAN 
Then I too shall follow. . . 

THE WOMAN 
Follow? Where? 

THE MAN 
Wherever you go. 

THE WOMAN 
Down into death? 

THE MAN 
Even into death. 

[A pause; she draws back a little.] 

THE WOMAN 
Are you crying? Are there tears on your 

cheeks? 
Why do you heave so? 

THE MAN 
Your love has died. . . 

THE WOMAN 
Are you so weak? 

THE MAN 
But I need you so. . . 

THE WOMAN 

[In a changed voice.] 
You need me! 

THE MAN 
Look! I do not need you, who am alone, 

uncomforted, 
With no place on Earth, no life, no light, if 
you are gone. . . 



22 NIGHT 

THE WOMAN 
You need me? 

THE MAN 
I need you . . . 

[Silence.] 

THE WOMAN 
This man is my child . . . 
[Silence.] 

THE MAN 
[Drawing her tenderly close.] 
Our dead child between us, 
O my beloved, is there not a future? 
May no more children issue from us, no more 

children 
Lovely, golden, waking with laughter, and 

clothed as with dawn 
With the memory of the dead? Come, my 

beloved, 
Down to the Valley, down to the living, down 

to the toilers. 
Come, my beloved! I am your child and your 

father. 
Your husband and your lover! Come, let us 

go! 

THE WOMAN 
[Weeping.] 

my heart! 

Something has broken in me, and the flood 
flows through my being! ^_^ 

1 come! I come! 

[They go out together, the Man with his arm 
around the Woman.] 

THE PRIEST 
Forgive these children. Lord God! 



JAMBS OPPENHEIM 23 

THE SCIENTIST 
Ignorance is indeed bliss! 

THE POET 

The secret of life? 

He gives it to her, she gives it to him . . . 

But who shall tell of it? Who shall know it? 



CURTAIN 



re FLYING STAG PLAYS 
FOR THE LITTLE THEATRE 

TO BE PUBLISHED MONTHLY 

Thirty Five Cents Each Three Dollars a Year 

The Best One Act Plays Produced 
by the Washington Square Players, the 
Provincetown Players, The Greenwich 
Village Players, and others, will be in- 
cluded in this series. A A A A A A 

THE CHESTER MYSTERIES, a Passion Play, 
as played on Christmas eve by the Greenwich Village 
Players. 

No. 1. THE SANDBAR QUEEN, by George 
Cronyn, as played by the Washington Square 
Players. 

No. 2. NIGHT, by James Oppenheim, as 
played by the Provincetown Players. 

No. 3. THE ANGEL INTRUDES, by Floyd 
Dell, (Provincetown Players). 

Others to follow at intervals of one month. 
SUBSCRIBE NOW 

Published by EGMONT ARENS, at the 

Washington Square Book Shop. New York 

17 West 8th Street 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



018 378 039 6 



